


Soft Focus

by raven_aorla



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/M, M/M, Matt consents to sex with Vanessa with Fisk watching, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Wesley doesn't have sex with anyone here but enjoys cleaning Matt up too much, not to being drugged while it happens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-02
Updated: 2015-05-20
Packaged: 2018-03-26 18:20:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3859933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raven_aorla/pseuds/raven_aorla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As far as Matt is concerned, a startling proposition is a chance to gather intel.</p><p>As far as Fisk is concerned, what Vanessa wants, Vanessa gets.</p><p>As far as Vanessa is concerned, her Wilson is generous and his gifts are treasures.</p><p>As far as Wesley is concerned, his employer's wishes are laws, and other people are things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Matt

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt and premise from https://daredevilkink.dreamwidth.org/725.html?thread=177877#cmt177877 . OP said they were up for some dub-con involving drugs. Wesley was never mentioned in the prompt, but he sort of crept in. As he does.
> 
> Not my characters, not my universe, not my circus, not my monkey...

1.  
Matt never expected an invitation like this. But Wilson Fisk radiates unmistakable, painfully acute sincerity, and there is no way he's lying. Somehow, there is no way Fisk is anything but truthfully telling him, in this upscale cafe where his assistant told Matt he would be, that Fisk wants Matt to spend a night with Vanessa.

"I would be present, but not directly involved," Fisk says in that labored eloquence of his. He stirs his tiny cappucino with a hand far too large for the spoon. It tinkles arrhythmically against the cup's edges. "I'm sure you can understand how jealousy can...vary, from circumstance to circumstance."

"Yes," Matt says quietly, his hand wrapped around the iced tea he's taken two cautious sips of. There are many customers at nearby tables. He doesn't think they're being paid off or blackmailed to ignore a languid afternoon trap. The dryness in his mouth, though, is not the kind any beverage will help.

He's never going to get a chance like this again. Anything he can learn about this man, and about a woman who would love this man, that's value beyond any squeamishness. He would be fooling himself if he denied feeling a spark with Vanessa, her voice, her own smooth elegant brand of eloquence and feeling.

Her hand on his arm, guiding. The jump of pulse. The warmth of skin from inches away.

Fisk is not lying about his particular desire, and definitely not about Vanessa's various ones.

Matt can use this, and he doesn't think he'll hate it. 

"I accept, Mr. Fisk. I have to ask that we wait at least two weeks, though, as I'm going to be putting in overtime on a tricky case." Instead of prowling the streets, Matt's going to need several nights of rest and healing meditation to not look suspicious naked. He resists the craving to shift one of his bandages just thinking about it.

"Certainly. That will give us time to work out some of the details. Wesley will be in touch. You understand that my attention is - demanded. In many areas. No need to worry. His discretion is...unparalleled."

I bet, Matt thinks, taking another sip of the iced tea to be polite. What he says: "Sounds good. Unfortunately my lunch break is nearly over..."

"Please, let me cover your cab fare." 

He's a gracious monster.


	2. Wilson

When the time comes, Murdock meets them in a restaurant Vanessa is partial to, brought by an ostensibly ordinary taxi driver who is in fact in Wilson's employ

Wilson isn't going to let Murdock make as many decisions as the young man thinks he will. It's about Vanessa's safety. It's about Wilson's privacy. It's about how it's fine, wonderful, ideal, that Vanessa have anything she wants - but no one else is allowed the same privilege. 

There are other diners in the establishment, but the three of them are in a private room, the staff that serve them carefully screened. The conversation flows easily over the wine - once again picked out by Wesley in advance - and food. Vanessa gracefully navigates their guest's inability to read the menu by reading it to him, adding descriptions and recommendations. Wilson says little, but takes the opportunity to squeeze her hand gently at one point.

She'd agreed to this next part, to his slight surprise and great gratification.

The really surprising thing is that Murdock catches on within minutes after he drinks the...enhanced...glass of wine he's been provided, near the end of the meal. Wilson feels like Murdock even looked slightly perturbed in the process of drinking it, though it was impossible for him to have tasted the difference. The biochemist they consulted was extremely competent and even more extremely terrified of them, after all. She promised the compound would be tasteless, odorless, and fast-acting. 

Perhaps for some people dosed, there's a window where they feel their motor skills and alertness weakening, but they haven't lost their higher cognitive functions yet. Anyway, the blackout Murdock will experience of everything between this dinner and tomorrow morning makes it irrelevant. 

"What'd you do t'me?" Murdock's speech is starting to slur, and he gropes for his cane. 

"I apologize," Wilson says, "but circumstances sometimes require rudeness. It's nothing personal."

"If this is, if, like rohypnol I don't, why, I said yes..." 

Vanessa goes to Murdock's side, smoothing his hair and speaking in soothing tones. "Forgive us. Wilson has his insecurities. No one is going to hurt you, Matthew. Everything will be just as you agreed will take place, but like a dream. I promise it will be a good dream."

Wilson pulls out his phone to arrange the next part of the proceedings. He pauses at the sight of Vanessa removing Murdock's glasses and placing them on the table. Without them his eyes are wide, vulnerable. They are honeyed brown in the candlelight, with the lack of focus and direction that give away his blindness. It's their rapid darting about that give away his emotions. 

That, and the soft, questioning sound the young man makes when Vanessa melts a kiss into his slackening mouth. It's the drug rendering Matthew Murdock speechless and helpless, but (from the look of it) the kiss definitely contributes.


	3. Vanessa

Wilson summons his most trusted bodyguard to carry Matthew through a back exit and into a waiting car. Wesley booked them a good but low-profile hotel room, and will supervise the young man's transport there. Wilson and Vanessa will go by a separate car.

Vanessa regrets the time delay involved. The drug, she was told, will render Matthew unnappealingly unconscious in somewhere between four and five hours. She watches Francis gather him up, one arm under his bent knees and one supporting his back, and the feeble swats Matthew aims in his general direction. "Nn," he manages, head listing to one side.

(Wesley, meanwhile, slips Matthew's sunglasses into his breast pocket and takes temporary possession of the white cane. He exchanges words with Wilson that Vanessa doesn't listen to. She knows what lies beneath them, always, down past the layers of business and power. She is happy about the different needs she and Wesley fulfill for the man they love. Resentment as well as overlap are equally unsuitable.)

Francis pauses at Vanessa's tutting noise. She adjusts Matthew's placement in the bodyguard's hold. "He could strain his neck like this. Remember that this gentleman is a guest."

"Yes, ma'am."

Matthews mumbles anxiously. Vanessa wants to put him at his ease. This aspect of the scenario was meant as a compromise to assuage Wilson's reservations. Yet Vanessa's finding more appeal in it than she expected. She can't help but smile as she kisses Matthew's forehead. "No one will hurt you. We'll join you soon." And she nods Francis onward.

"You seem eager," Wilson comments when they are alone again.

She guides him to his feet. "Let's just say I think one dessert is enough for tonight. And it's not one we could have here."

Wilson Fisk is not a chatty sort of man, but his silences come in different hues. The one during their car ride, thankfully, is one she can tell springs from nervousness and not anger or regret. She stays close to him, pressing against him, telling him in her own silence that she is grateful and thrilled.

When they reach the room, Matthew is lying atop the covers in the center of the immense bed, still fully clothed except for his shoes, socks, and tie. They are neatly arranged in the same corner as his other belongings, on or under a desk. Vanessa regrets, a little, that she won't be here to see him wake in the morning, all rumpled hair and puppyish yawning. 

Matthew is trying to sit up at the sound of their approach. If he wasn't in the middle of the bed this might have made him tumble off. Wesley thinks of everything.

Vanessa kisses Wilson, deeply, murmuring a thank you. She unclasps and then steps out of her gown, tips her feet free from her designer pumps. "It's me. It's only me. Wilson's here too, but I remember you wrote that you'd rather not touch him, and we'll abide by that." 

This sigh is a more ambiguous one. She won't keep him waiting long. Before the dinner, Matthew filled out a form detailing what he'd enjoy doing with them and what he wouldn't. Vanessa is perfectly contect to restrict herself to the list, even if some of the entries won't be possible in his current state.

In nothing but the lingerie she knows Wilson likes best, Vanessa climbs onto the bed and over her sweet boy. He's a competent, intelligent professional, yes, but even with his faint stubble Matthew seems so achingly, preciously young at this moment. 

She sits on his lower torso, though she keeps most of her weight on her knees. She takes his face in her hands. "Can you hear Wilson settle in his chair, Matthew? He says he finds me beautiful in motion, but I would say you're beautiful at rest." It's easy to slip her tongue between his lips, and pleasure into his moan.

She moves and unwraps him then, carefully, like a Christmas gift recipient who wants to use the gilt sheets next year. Each bit of newly exposed skin is baptized with a kiss or delicate press of teeth. Out of the corner of her eye, she notices Wilson tidying each article away. She smiles when she realizes he is doing it while almost never tearing his eyes from her. And that there is a distinct outline affecting the drape of his own suit.

Matthew has a saddening number of scars. Vanessa knows he spent some years in an orphanage, and she hopes the famed cruelty of children didn't extend to abusing a blind classmate. She's sure to avoid giving them any pain, not so much as a dig of fingernails. She reserves that for the smooth expanses, the lovely contours of lean muscle. 

He squirms into the sharpness, not away from it. Tenderness makes him whine with something that straddles the line between erotic and almost...mournful? She can feel her own body dampen, tighten, warm, shiver in all its familiar pallette of sensation, but she wants to take her time. To explore. To fashion the clay under her hands and mouth, transmuting into what will always be, just a little bit, her own. 

They're only lit by a single lamp, now, but Matthew's a flame in soft focus. For a time he lacks his clarity. He has retained all his heat. The way he hums when she traces his face and cards through his hair. The choked, shocked little gasp when her fingers surprise him, whether pinches or scratches or simple unfamiliarity. It would be unfair to call him a puppet or plaything. He's far too alive. Vanessa loves him for it.

She knows he will almost certainly not come back. Most people would feel uneasy, remembering so little of a tryst, even if they attributed it to an excess of wine. She presses her face into the crook of his neck for a moment, as if to hide from this eventuality. 

(Wilson, behind them, is trying too hard to breathe evenly. He sounds just like he does when waiting for her permission to touch himself. After Matthew succumbs to sleep, Vanessa will have to show Wilson her appreciation in ways both unmistakeable and detailed. Though no, darling, you don't have permission yet. You're being very good.)

Matthew wears no aftershave or cologne, only the remnants of simple bar soap, perhaps the slightest touch of lotion. His sweat tastes more like tears than it has any right to. He hasn't produced any tears for an accurate comparison, though certain vocalizations are difficult to identify as (or distinguish from) tiny sobs. 

Vanessa finally focuses her attention on Matthew's erection. She has been purposefully skirting around until now. As advertised, the drug that knocked out so much of his functioning has left the strictly reproductive parts in full force. He writhes (however weakly) and keens (however faintly) at a simple slide of her thumb.

She contemplates for almost a full minute. Then she says, "My love, I need you to fetch both a condom and a cock ring. Poor Matthew's become tremendously sensitive, and I'd very much like to climax when he does. All my additional ones tonight I am planning to get from you, so I hope you won't begrudge it too badly."

"Not at all," Wilson says, hoarse and wanting. He also helps her undress the rest of the way.

Matthew whimpers, overcome, when eventually Vanessa envelops him, easing her way with torturous slowness astride his hips. He cries so quietly, sounding so torn apart with every movement, that she leans in to cradle him, shelter him, even as she takes him. 

He's probably beyond understanding speech by now, so she hums and murmurs her affection and appreciation instead, gazing into those shuttered windows of eyes. He closes them as she's finding her release and he's teetering, unable to fall without her taking pity. 

She kisses his eyelids, marvelling at how his voice is exhausted at last, as she lets him come.


	4. (James) Wesley

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags specific to this chapter alone: Somnophilia, unambigious-no-question-about-it Non-Con (the previous chapter had a thin veneer of dubiousness, this does not). It does not, however, contain any form of penetration, unless you count tongue-kissing. 
> 
> Chapter 5 will make sense to you just fine if you decide to skip this one.
> 
> On this POV and what people are called within it: I interpret Wesley as having a complicated dichotomy between Mr. Fisk/his employer and Wilson/his friend-and-or-love. I am playing with the idea that he's doing something similar with both Matthew Murdock and his own name.

One of the many things Wesley likes about his employer is that, ninety-five percent of the time, unless Wesley asks for guidance or clarification, Mr. Fisk doesn't tell him how to do something. He simply says something needs to be done, and he leaves Wesley to his own judgment. 

So. Vanessa and Mr. Fisk have left the hotel. A brief phone call woke Wesley from his own light sleep - he's learned to grab morsels of rest whenever he can - in another room in the same building. He gave his assurances that he'd take care of the rest.

Now he's pondering the unconscious form of Matthew Murdock, inexperienced but surprisingly competent attorney at law, who is completely naked except for the blanket draped over him. 

Vanessa was probably responsible for the blanket. She's more prone to sentiment than Wesley finds strictly comfortable to be around (Wesley maxes out at giving a damn over one person besides himself), but he finds her agreeable all the same. She might not be ideal for Mr. Fisk's focus on his ambitions, but unlike all his employer's unsavory associates, Wesley only cares about Mr. Fisk's empire to the extent that it makes Wilson happy. Vanessa makes Wilson happy. 

((As a bonus, when Wilson is happy, he makes an effort to help Wesley pursue a few of his less convenient interests, such as this one.))

In the morning, Matthew needs to be placated and sent home, or his office, or wherever he wants to be sent. The man is wary of everything and everyone, so he hasn't told them where he lives. He's currently sweat-soaked and lipstick-smeared. Vanessa was sensible enough not to leave marks, since even a blind man might feel raised skin with his fingers, or have someone else notice and ask him about such things. 

Wesley regrets having to be sensible too. He peels back the layer of cloth hiding most of Matthew's body from view. The young man lets out a tiny sigh and curls in on himself, damp skin prickling at the sudden cool. Interesting, so he's still reacting somewhat to stimuli. The biochemist said that was within the realm of possibility, but that only a minimum of nine hours after dosing or an injection of an antidote would actually make him wake up.

After this Wesley should send the relevant emails to make sure that woman and her girlfriend are downgraded to minimum surveillance. And send one of those thank-you cards that says job well done, much appreciated, your payment is in your bank account, tell anyone about this and everyone you love will be filmed being cut to small pieces over a period of forty-eight hours. Standard. 

He also has a governor to schmooze with at a wine tasting. At least it'll be good wine. And have a chat with a barista who heard something zie shouldn't have. And Madam Gao has invited him to a round of mah jong this coming evening, presumably because you need four people to play mah jong and most of the people she interacts with who've heard of the game can't see the tiles, and you don't say no to that woman...

((Stop thinking about work, James. Wilson's given you free rein and tacit permission to mix in some pleasure. Your king has given you a sleeping prince to play with and you're thinking about Madam Gao?))

Earlier, waiting for his time to step onstage, Wesley had exchanged his suit and tie for sweatpants and a white tee, to nap in. They're good for crawling onto the empty half of the bed, too. After removing his glasses and silenced smart phone, of course, neatly placed on the bedside table. He clicks a second lamp on, though the lighting remains soft. 

((The better to see you with, my dear.))

Theoretically, Wesley could do all sorts of things to all sorts of people. Once you're threatening bodily harm on people and their loved ones, even if you're almost never the one actually carrying it out, a bit of somnophiliac molestation isn't much of a leap. The problem is that he has no attraction whatsoever to sniveling victims. He likes seeing someone helpless, but only if they're someone who commanded his respect first.

It's remembering Matthew's wariness upon meeting Wesley, even as his golden retriever of a law partner groveled, that makes running fingers over the curve of his hip satisfying. He has an impressive amount of muscle tone, Matthew Murdock does, and on that day he looked like he'd been barely holding back from physically shaking some straight answers out of Wesley. 

Matthew shifts sometimes, as if agitated. He doesn't turn away. Maybe it's the heaviness of the sedation, or maybe his subconsious doesn't actually dislike Wesley's gentle handling all that much. Wesley isn't aggressive about any of it. He's not one for that. Roughness with this pale, pliant body would be like chugging a well-aged vintage from a mug (the simile makes him shudder inside). 

He gets a little bolder, though still with a light touch, as Matthew continues to sleep through it all. Tracing his jawline. Barely scraping teeth along his neck. Mouthing at a swell of collarbone. A sweeping line down his back. Palming a firm buttock. He teases the slumbering cock just a bit, two fingers and his own avid eyes, but nothing happens and he leaves it alone from then on.

A flash of memory: Wesley entering the back of the courtroom, Murdock standing for a closing speech. In that moment, Wesley saw a bit of his employer in the young lawyer. Murdock's words were weighty and thoughtful. His conviction was solid, vibrant, so like the guiding star Wesley fixed himself to so many years ago. Murdock was poised. He was sincere. He was unyielding, in his quiet way, that transcended all the tragedy that marked his past. 

Wesley kicks off his pants and takes himself in one hand. He tilts Matthew's face in the other so he can see every eyelash and pore despite having taken off his glasses. He starts with leisurely strokes, as the hush seems to demand. Soon he doesn't so much speed up as intensify.

Matthew's mouth is just so red in this low light. If Wesley believed in sin as something other than a tenacious cultural buzzword, he'd say that's how red his silent bed companion's lips are. Red as sin. Capable of charm, and wit, and piercing questions, and words that sway blind justice in his favor. And now they have no choice in their fate, no agency whatsoever.

Wesley presses his own lips to those. Briefly indulging in the fanciful, he imagines his tongue is pressing a brand onto Matthew's, something invisible, intangible, that will always catch every word about to leave those scarlet lips. Wesley imagines Matthew stumbling a little every time he speaks from now on, not knowing why. 

((Just like he might ache a little sometimes, not knowing why. Ghosts on his skin. The better to eat you with, my dear.))

He lets himself come on that bare chest and stomach. After all, Wesley is going to roll Matthew onto the collapsible wheeled cot stored in the closet, get him into the generously sized en suite, bathe him, and replace the bedsheets. If he can't sculpt, he wants to paint.

Wesley only gives himself two minutes or so to recover. He has a lot to do. 

If he intersperses all those tasks with an impractical number of kisses and fondles, well, nobody needs to know that.


	5. Karen

"Here." Karen plunks the takeout container on Matt's desk and plunks herself in the seat across from it.

Matt snaps out of his equivalent of staring into space (yes, Karen knows that's kind of what he's always doing, but she doesn't know a better expression for that lost-in-thought slump). "Sorry, what?"

"You told Foggy you were going to order in, so it's fine for him to go consort with his ex for the greater good some more - he would make an adorable secret agent, I agree - but you're totally not going to. You're totally going to sit here and be grim. That's not fine. You've eaten noodles from Tranh's Pho Depot several times, so I got some for both of us."

"Um." He summons one of his polite smiles. They always hurt her a little, to know that they're not real and yet he's trying so hard, even when he doesn't have to. "I'm not that hungry?"

"I will give you chopsticks and a spoon. Keep me company. You are not under obligation to employ them to put more than ten bites in your mouth." If he doesn't finish his portion she'll take it home, as her payout from Union Allied plus her savings won't last forever, but maybe if he feels a little guilty he can be tricked into nourishing himself. She deliberately got him something very plain as well as precedented, in case he genuinely feels queasy. One skipped lunch she can let slide, but after more than that, Matt needs something stronger than Foggy's gentle urging to take care of himself.

"Okay. Thanks, Karen. How much do I owe you?"

"Ten substantial bites, minimum. And..." Karen takes a deep breath. The words haven't caught up yet.

Matt raises his eyebrows. He obediently starts on his noodles. His chopstick skills are much better than hers, but she takes a moment to whisper which sauce packet is which. Nonchalantly, like Foggy does. She's getting better at that. 

After his first two bites, Matt gives up on waiting. "What's the other thing?"

Karen's mouth is full, so she makes some weird humming noise she hopes will convey this. She takes a sip of iced tea. "You and Foggy have both been great about not prying into...my deal. From before we met. I appreciate that and I've been trying to do the same with your stuff. Even when I worry about how many nosebleeds you've had this week, or why the hell you don't get foam borders on your coffee table. Foggy asks you those things too, so at least I know I'm not the only one noticing, and that it's something you genuinely don't want to talk about."

"Mm. Are there bean sprouts? Usually these come with bean sprouts. I like Pho Depot because their vegetables are fresh."

She hands him the little bag full of bean sprouts and basil leaves. Their fingers touch briefly. This is not the time to think about that. "Foggy hasn't noticed this - this thing I'm worried about. I realize I'm generalizing, but, it's, it's not the kind of thing guys notice much. Not necessarily something women do either, but I've seen it enough, and I guess I look for it after it's happened enough times to people I care about." 

"I don't really..."

"I won't ask you anything. You don't have to say anything. Just listen. Please."

Matt nods, solemn. Which is endearingly ruined when he says, "Can I keep eating?"

"Please do. I will poke you if you don't." Her smile fades, not that he'd know. Unless maybe he can hear it in her voice. "Last Friday you mentioned you had a date on Saturday night. I know you said it went badly, and I know you're a gentleman who wouldn't badmouth any date short of a serial killer, but this isn't, uh. It's more than that. You don't have to confirm or deny. Eat your noodles. Listen. Please. Foggy's usually the only person you are happy with touching you, that I've seen you around, though you're more comfortable with me as time goes on and I, um, really, that means a lot."

This smile is tiny but genuine. Karen doesn't let herself be dazzled. Good thing it's not his rare crinkle-eyes-grin, the one that uses up his whole face and probably makes flowers suddenly bloom out of season. She wouldn't be able to continue in the face of that.

"You're flinching from Foggy. I'm not sure if he can tell. He knows you well, but he knows you so well that I don't think he watches carefully. I think he assumes he'd catch on. You're losing focus a lot, and not in a pulling-late-nights-plus-insomnia way. In a thinking-about-things-you-don't-want-to-but-can't-stop way. You're taking almost three times as long to wash your hands. You're taking showers somewhere, maybe a gym, during a lot of lunch breaks, even though you're still showering in the morning. I can tell by the damp hair, and the towel hanging in a closet to dry. Our lunch breaks aren't long enough for you to go to a gym, work out, and shower."

"Karen, I can explain."

"No. You're going to deflect, and smile, and say you're fine, and say I don't need to worry. I put up with that most of the time. But something's made you hollow, Matt, and nobody else is going to notice, and it started on Saturday night. So you will listen to me." Karen realizes she's almost broken her chopstick. She takes another deep breath.

So does he. "Okay."

"Sometimes things happen when a person's on a date, or in a relationship. It's happened to me and way too many people I know. Most were female, yeah, but not all, and I will become very unpleasant towards anyone who glosses over that. Maybe they're not sure what was the bad part. Or even exactly what happened. You think it was no big deal, you shouldn't feel hurt, nothing and nobody hurt you. But you feel messed up, and icky, and you can't act normally for a while, and that. Is. Fine."

Matt's eyes aren't visible, but Karen feels like at least a bit of his heart is, now. In all the horrible, but needed, rawness that implies. He swallows at nothing, and his hands are clutched around an empty spoon and the edge of the desk. 

 

"It's not fine when someone doesn't treat you like you're a real person, or doesn't act like your wants and your needs and your feelings are the most important things and that they are goddamn privileged to even be near you. It doesn't matter your gender, age, whatever. It doesn't matter what theirs is. Nobody can make you not feel shitty about something like this, but I need to make it extremely clear that don't you dare feel bad about feeling bad. Because if you do, you are saying I need to feel bad, and so does my step-brother, and so do more than half the friends I have ever had. Don't you dare. Eat your noodles. Foggy'll be back soon. No, I won't tell him."

She hopes she's not imagining the set of Matt's shoulders, not just hoping that he seems a tiny bit lighter now. "Thank you." His non-spoon hand fumbles for hers, and gives it the smallest of squeezes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I figured Matt needed this chapter, and so did I. (Maybe you too. If so, listen to Karen. It took me a while to get there.)


End file.
